The Morgue

The pungent odour of formaldehyde

Which should make a mortal nauseatic

Had filled the morgue,

It wasn't just the stale rancidity in the air,

Of the chemical floating around,

The rotting corpses, which lay there

Unattended, uncatered for, unfazed by all

Or any of the changes around,

Emanating a pretty abominable stench

As though, the souls that had once possessed

Those corpses wish to lament for their lifetime,

All of it, in vain, now.

The broken mosaics are strewn all across the floor

The crooked pieces of which

Threatened to make your foot bleed

The dreadful crimson spilling out of it.

As though, an intimation is given out to you

To dare you to take a step

From the deserted corridor into

That uninhabited morgue.

Any time a new corpse were to step in,

Frequently in the wee hours of the dark

The morbidly ghoulish room

Would send a shiver down the spine of passers-by

As though, some evil has willed, has vowed

To cross the threshold and enter the mortal world,

To shower it with the evilly cold rains

Of dread and doom, to form a mortuary,

Out of the mortal world.

They stay there, as dead as they can be

Nestled within the obscurity of unawareness,

Far away from the realm of all that is good

And believed to be good. The morgue stays,

As it has, over the years been

Mouldy, dark, damp and haunted.